A short story written in my free time.

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There was always something peculiar about Wilson. The way he sort of just sat on his porch at midnight, glancing around the neighborhood with his eldritch, hazel eyes. The way he left his yard untouched, allowing the yard's grass to reach up past your ankles. The way he never came outside when the sun was above the horizon unless he desperately needed to buy something like groceries. The way he bit his nails viciously like a famished child. However, nothing could top his unusual behavior like the way he vanished an entire week once every month. He wouldn't come out at midnight to watch the neighborhood, and he doesn't even stare out the windows like he usually does. However, the week that he has his disappearance is random itself. It could be at the beginning of the month, in the middle, or even during the last week. Nobody knows what he does. Some say he just closes himself inside for peace, but he does that anyway. Some say he leaves to visit a relative in his family, but as far as I remember, Wilson doesn't have a family that he wants to visit. I know better than those rumors. I know what Wilson is doing, and I intend to prove it.

I used to be a detective of the Indianapolis Police Department until one case got me released from the job, however, I spent eighteen years solving crimes and examining murder scenes that appeared like a massacre occurred. Though I'm now forty six years old, I know I will be able to easily and swiftly reveal to the world what Wilson does that one week he vanishes from everybody. As a detective, I could decipher if a man is guilty or innocent. The menacing look in Wilson's eyes reveal to me that he is doing something that he wants nobody to discover. I believe he does leave his horrific, rundown two-story home but not to do divine deeds. I believe his reason is far more sinister. Numerous times have I spied on him from my house across the street from his, and I've noticed him put all his trash bags in the back of his pickup truck and drive somewhere during midnight just after the week he has his famous disappearance. I believe something is in those bags, but I can't conclude what. It could be a body, perhaps something illegal, or some other atrocity that Wilson conceals within them and stashes them wherever he drives off to every month. Either way, I know just what to do to accomplish my personal investigation on Wilson McCurray.

Wilson had a beard that idly hanged from his face, while his hair was shaggy and bedraggled. The man himself appeared to be some sort of homeless person. Wilson often wore a raggedy, brown jacket that was a size too large for him and he wore torn jeans with brown boots that stomped the ground which most locals say they heard a mile away. I don't think I've ever witnessed him smile, but then again he is usually lurking within his own home and not outside for the world to see. After I was fired from my job, I found my one-story home in this nice, little neighborhood a few days before Wilson moved in across the street. At first I was thrilled to discover I wasn’t the newest person on the block, and I had went over to give the stranger a warmful welcome. However, when I took a step on Wilson’s porch, the front door flew open and Wilson stomped outside to face me with his frightful gaze.

I had hoped to speak with him and have a pleasant conversations, saying, “Hello there! My name is Calvin, Calvin Gregory. I live just across the street and was just wanting to welcome-”

“I don’t care!” Wilson had exclaimed. “I could care less what you want. All I want is for you to trot back wherever you came back and never return! I wish to live alone and not deal with the hassles of people like you. That’s the reason why I moved here in the first place!”

Wilson had then returned back inside and slammed the door behind him. Of course, I didn’t want any trouble so I had angrily walked back home. When I reached my home and stared back at his house, I could see the curtains suddenly sway as if somebody had been watching me until I had made my choice to look at him or her. I didn’t even know his name was Wilson until I caught a glimpse of his mailbox which had his first and last name boldly painted on the side of it.

At first, I could care less what Wilson done thanks to his rude response to my act of kindness of merely wanting to welcome him to the neighborhood, but that was before I saw him begin his quirky events. I have resorted to not sleeping whatsoever now as I observe him from my window everyday the time reaches midnight, examining Wilson from a distance and patiently waiting for him to accidentally reveal something to me that might describe what he does for a week every month. My eyes are usually bloodshot now when I see myself in the bathroom mirror, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Wilson is a psycho and possibly a serial killer! It would explain why he chose a small town that’s near Indianapolis where he could leave for a week, murder some innocent soul, slither back to his home and dispose of the body somewhere around here before anybody knew better.

Some may believe I’m slowly losing my mind. Some say I am a psycho myself, but that’s because they don’t see the truth like I do. I tell the neighbors about my theories about Wilson and his peculiar personality, and they look at each other like my theories are absurd. They simply don’t see the world like I do as a detective. They’re blind unlike me, but I will show them. I will unravel the horrors for them, and then they will come to me and apologize that they had foolishly doubted me. I anticipate that day to come rather soon.

My observations has led me to consider the options I could take to foil Wilson’s plans. I could sneak into his house the week he leaves and attempt to find evidence or clues of what he does or at least where he is going. I perhaps could see if Wilson has been arrested for certain crimes and follow up with that. But, then again, I could also simply follow him and catch him myself. Everybody will be so proud of me if I stop this monster. There is the even the slightest chance that the Indianapolis Police Department will pray I return to my job and solve cases far more important than an elderly man who is beyond peculiar. Yes, that’s it! Wilson will pay dearly from my hands of authority and justice.

After I was fired from my job as a detective, some officials believed I should not be able to carry a gun around. However, it’s an American privilege and liberty to own a personal firearm, but there was eventually a compromise. I could only purchase and keep a single handgun and nothing beyond that. I didn’t care much since I preferred handguns over a clunky rifle or lousy shotgun anyways. Handguns are more maneuverable and easily concealed. As a detective, a handgun got the job done without making a mess of it. After all, detectives don’t need any heavy weaponry since they’re not in gunfights a lot, correct?

It’s currently October 18, 2015 and right around midnight. Earlier today, I had gazed into my bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror and told myself this is it. No more watching, no more examining, no more investigating for there only is now the time for wonderful action. Something has to be done with Wilson, and I plan to attend to that personally. The neighborhood will thank me soon enough, and I will be announced as a local hero. Some may consider me as some unlawful vigilante, but they are only oafs who believe politics matter in situations such as this. I have no regrets. I live a life that’s misunderstood and fatally dangerous, but yet it’s one that saves the lives of many. I’m not psychotic or mentally unstable as they say, but I know who is! Wilson is crazy, demented, and the definition of a vile monster. He will pay, oh yes he shall.

I’ve been sitting in my car for probably an hour now, leaving the engine off as I patiently stare at the front door of Wilson’s decaying home and wait for his departure so I can stealthily follow him to his clandestine destination. I sit here and wonder where does he go? Does Wilson travel to some city dump to dispose of whatever he has hiding in those bags? Perhaps he burns them somewhere in a more rural area of the state? Or maybe he just hides them somewhere that nobody but him remembers? Either way, it doesn’t matter. My plan is to discover where he goes, what’s in those trash bags, and take him down by whatever means necessary. I feel like a detective again, and it feels so remarkable. The thrill of about to connect all the pieces together is satisfactory and undeniably unforgettable, even if it’s from a petty case such as this.

Finally, after waiting for a few more minutes past midnight, Wilson emerges from his home, and swiftly walks over to his pickup truck where he tosses two black trash bags into the back of his truck. Afterwards, I watch him enter the vehicle and turn on the engine, shining his headlights onto my car. I didn’t expect this whatsoever, so I duck behind the steering wheel and could only pray that Wilson didn’t spot me in my car. Luckily, the answer to whether he saw me or not was answered when I saw the light vanish from within my car and heard Wilson’s truck roaring down the street. I didn’t have much time left if I desired to catch up with him. I sat back up in my seat, turning the keys in the ignition and listening to the engine of my vehicle burst alive. I put the car into drive, then slammed my foot on the gas pedal before speeding down the street after Wilson.

My eyes dart around the streets as I attempt to catch even the slightest sight of Wilson’s hideous truck but see only the deserted roads of the town. I stop my automobile at an intersection and release a soft sigh. He’s probably long gone by now. After all, it’s not Wilson goes slow. Surprisingly, for an elderly man, Wilson has always been known as a fast driver who seems to care less about anybody else on the road but him. Then, all the sudden as if by some miraculous chance, Wilson’s truck pulls out from a street up ahead and zooms forward on the highway out of town. I didn’t hesitate whatsoever to slam back on the gas pedal and speed up after him. The hunt has returned to me, and I snicker at the thought that Wilson almost got away but nobody can escape from me! I am the greatest detective this world will possibly ever witness, and I will be sure to prove that to everybody when I’m back in my office, solving cases that nobody else could. I will be a hero to all once more.

It took about an hour of tailing Wilson to discover where his destination is located. Wilson appeared to be heading to Indianapolis from what I observed, but then I saw him turn off the highway and onto a gravel road that went up a hill and into a thick forest. I assumed that if I follow him down the road now, Wilson would know what my plans would be so I drive onward until I come across a nice, little house that belongs to somebody and cruise up their driveway before backing out on the highway and heading back to the gravel road. As much as I yearn to catch Wilson, I have to admit that the forest the road went into appeared horrific and menacing. Most of the trees have no leaves on their branches but rather they were scattered among the ground in a variety of vivid red, delightful orange, and charming yellow colors. You have to love fall, huh? Despite my fears, I shove them away into the back of my mind and pull onto the road before cautiously driving down it.

As I drive down the eerie road within the forest, my mind began to wonder. What if this merely leads to two separate roads where I take the wrong one? What if Wilson knows I’ve been following him and drove down this gravel road to simply ambush me? After all, I don’t precisely know if he’s armed or not. He could have a rifle or a handgun concealed inside his truck. There are plenty of possibilities where I end up as just another victim. The neighborhood would notice my disappearance if I should be murdered here tonight, but they wouldn’t worry about it. They would continue their lives and probably assume I moved away or something like that while Wilson would watch them from his home, most likely with a big, vile grin on his threatening face. My mind loves to ponder over what could possibly go wrong rather than try to comfort me. It’s odd, but that’s just me I suppose.

Suddenly, after a mile or so of being trapped on a narrow road in between countless trees, an opening arrived where a small cabin is revealed to me. The cabin is nothing much but made of logs with no outer decorations, but what interests me is Wilson’s truck that is parked in front of the cabin. This must be either the home of Wilson’s next victim, or the mysterious hiding spot for the trash bags that Wilson has. I slowly drive to the front of the cabin and park the car, taking a deep breath before glancing over at the passenger seat beside me to eye my handgun that I placed there when I entered my car earlier. There is no going back now.

My handgun, the Glock 22, is preferably used by most policemen. As much as I wanted a large revolver, I went with an intelligent choice by choosing a regular handgun. After I was fired, the Indianapolis Police Department allowed me to keep the firearm as a sort of farewell gift. Little did they know that this weapon will still bring justice to awful criminals. I grasp the Glock 22 in my right hand, and exit the my vehicle before raising the firearm at the front door to expect Wilson to jump out with a weapon of his own. However, nothing came out nor a sound can be heard. All I could listen to is the wind that breezes through the trees and slightly blows my trench coat to the left. I sprint to the front door, taking another deep breath before slamming my shoulder against it to successfully break it open and aim the handgun at whatever moves.

From what I saw at first glance, the cabin is mostly dark except for a roaring fire that illuminated the room which allows me to see Wilson blankly gazing at me. Two rocking chairs are in front of the fireplace with another figure idly sitting on one of the chairs. This must be somebody’s home, and Wilson most likely just got finished with murdering his next victim. He appears to be shocked that I stalked him here, but I don’t see any bloodstains on his body or any weapon in his hand. If he just got done killing somebody, then there should be something on him.

I exclaim, still holding my handgun with both hands at him and my finger cautiously on the trigger, “It’s over, Wilson! I’m taking you in for your crimes.”

“What did I do that’s so wrong, lad?” Wilson questions me with one of his eyebrows raised.

“To be honest, I think I know from what I can see in the chair. Who did you murder now you sick animal?”

“Nobody!”

“Lies!”

Wilson shook his hands at me. “I swear I didn’t kill anybody, you psycho! This is my mother, and she lives out here all by herself since my father died two years ago. She’s deaf and fragile, unable to do much so I come here once a month to give her a helping hand and give her whatever I have to support her.”

I take a few steps forward, my alert eyes never departing from Wilson. I couldn’t believe him. I just couldn’t. He’s a vile monster, and a complete freak! He has to be some sort of murderer or at the very least a drug dealer!

“If you’re saying that you’re sane,” I ask, “then tell me what’s in those trash bags in your truck?”

“I just told you! I pack things up in the trash bags and give them to my mother. It could be some food, maybe some tools I bring with me to help tidy up her home here, or perhaps some blankets and firewood to keep her warm. I know it’s odd, but we’re just an odd family. We’re not insane or anything of that sort We would do nothing wrong, sir,” Wilson explains, holding his hands up to indicate to me not to shoot him down. “I especially didn’t do nothing wrong so please lower the gun!”

A wicked grin slowly creeps upon my face. “You’ve done everything wrong.”

Before Wilson could say anything else, I pull the trigger. The echoing sound of the bullet flying from the barrel of my weapon and into Wilson’s neck merely widens my grin more. He presses his hands against his bleeding wound, staring at me with absolute fear in his eyes. His beard changes color from dull white to eerie red before he collapses on the wooden floor. I need this case to bring me back into the police force. I would make Wilson responsible for committing at least one murder, and I knew who it would be. I raise the gun at the back of his mother’s head, who now rocks in her chair. She must be deaf since she didn’t seem to hear anything of what has just occurred in her own home. I didn’t see what she looks like, but that doesn’t matter now. I pull the trigger again and listen to the satisfying sound of a gunshot.

Now there is only silence except for the howling wind outside. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath before I lower my firearm and open my eyes to the scene before me. Two fresh corpses lay before me each having blood leaking out of them and onto the floor. I knew better than to touch anything, but I need to find a gun for Wilson to have. After all, the police would know immediately that something is wrong if Wilson’s mother died from a gun Wilson didn’t have. As I rush around the cabin, searching for a firearm of any sort. Thankfully, it appears that Wilson’s father was a hunter since I discovered a polished hunting rifle hanging up on the wall in the bedroom. I grab it with one hand before I slide it under Wilson’s corpse with a smile across my face. The crime scene has been set up. I took out my cellular phone and dialed 911.

I knew what to tell the police once they arrive. I would describe how I stalked Wilson, observing him for days until I finally decided to take action on the killer and followed him to this cabin, where I heard a gunshot when I arrived. I then would lie that I came in the door and Wilson had tried to raise his rifle and shoot me, but I swiftly put a bullet in his neck and then dialed for the police. How would they know I’m lying? They would be skeptical at first, but they would believe me eventually. I have left no real evidence that I have committed this justice and they wouldn’t really investigate much. They would be concerned with more grand killers, and I would get my job back and everything would be like it was before I got fired. I still can’t believe that I got fired for killing suspects when I realized that they were the criminal. I was only delivering justice, and I still am it seems! Wilson is a psycho and not me! I’m the saviour here, and I realize that I am the best detective in the entire planet!

Some may call me crazy, mentally deranged, or insane if they discover what I’ve done today, but they would be merely jealous they didn’t solve this case first. After I slid the my phone in my pocket and stroll outside, leaning against the wall of the cabin and patiently waiting for the police to arrive, my mind began to wonder. What if the police ask me how did I discover that Wilson is a cold-blooded killer? I snicker as I knew just what to say, since replying that I am the greatest detective in the world probably won’t convince them. I would answer that there’s something about Wilson. Something that made me know before anybody else could. There’s definitely something about Wilson. Definitely.